The Queen's Son
by Come like shadows
Summary: The Joker offers to show Batman how he is just One Rotten Day away from being Just. Like. Him. Is it true or is it another one of the Clown Prince's tricks?


The hide-out, the main circus tent where the wild rumpus began when a father

_(shot a mother her blood flew upwards and painted the many faces of the porcelain virgin marys)_

_(cut open her face with a dull kitchen blade, the light of the one bare bulb shining off of the knife-)_

_(came at him with the knife chased him out of the house, into the rain where he bled and __**bled**__)_

was in suburbia. Perfect hedges and white picket fences unlike grey filtered light and concrete of the city. The sun shone bright here, blinding.

The Joker would change that. He would take the Gotham Queen and break her with blood stained fingers. Then he would rebuild her. Full of sharp edges and knife blades and bombs with short fuses. She would be a beautiful leper, destroying all she touched.

_Just. Like. Him._

The Joker sat in the basement with his back against the weeping concrete walls. The lights were off.

_(The low steady hum of the power running through the wires reminded him of the ECT room. Fingers splayed then clenched, claw-like and feral. The thick smell of the flesh under the rubber pads being burned away. And worst of all. __**Everything stopped.**__ The moth lazily circling the wire cage that protected the light bulb froze, and grew brighter, grew spears of jagged light that erupted from its back and meshed with the stark whiteness of the room. When the fuzzy feeling was gone so was the moth. Time lost, time wasted.)_

The real problem, obviously, was a lack of family. A lack of _comm-un-ity_. How can one poor crazed soul be expected to bring an entire city to her knees by himself? Henchmen didn't count, they were under medicated pawns. Pulled to him by a deadly miasma of chemicals and fear.

What he needed was a _brother_.

Someone who understood, who was every bit the revolutionist as he. In the dark a smile crawled across his face and lay there coiled, like a poisonous snake. It grew and the snake became a shark, stained red in tooth and intent.

He needed the Bat-Man.

* * *

"No lovely lady Mr. Wayne? I'm surprised!" The man sat himself down at the billionaires table. He planted his elbows on the table, his head was thrown forward, vulture like, making his wide grin the most prominent thing on his face. A black fedora was pushed down low over his eyebrows; a laminated PRESS card glowed in the mellow lights from the string that hung around his neck.

Bruce Wayne smiled and looked for a waiter out of the corners of his eyes. "Well, we do all need our alone time." The Batman eyed him critically. Tight-cut white shirt, no bulges so no gun. Hands open and on the table. No knife. Boot knife? He quickly calculated the amount of pressure it would take to break the average human shin.

The reporter could be handled.

"Yes, uh," a low giggle, easy to put off as nervousness. "What about Miss…Giselle?"

"Gabrielle."

"Fine, Fine. What did she have to say-" The reporter suddenly stopped. "This is hard. _Normalcy. _Let's start over." The reporter sat up straight, cracked his neck and leaned forward, as if to confide something.

Bruce Wayne's eyebrows were starting a slow descent downwards.

"You've always been alone haven't you Mr. Wayne?" Long fingers began to tap a slow beat on the glass topped table. His eyes were like carrion crows. Calculating. But full of a sick cannibalistic joy. "Ever since your parents died." His voice was low, slightly slurred, the consonants sharp like razor blades.

_"Who do you think you are?"_ But he knew.Bruce's voice was a reminder of dark alleyways and broken collarbones. White lights penetrating the cloud ceiling that simultaneously harkened and struck fear.

The reporter pulled a picture out of his sleeve, unfolded it and set it down between them. He tapped it with one dirty finger nail.

It was of Brucie's mother.

"The scene was so messy, wasn't it? It was spontaneous-creative, unlike anything you had ever known-"

_(The alleyway smelled like stale beer and fear. Jets of steam poured out of the grating and hit his downturned face-)_

"That's why you can't stand me. Because I remind you of everything you lost that day. Your One Rotten Day."

_(Pearls lay strewn across the alley was like the tears of a pure white goddess.)_

"How long did it take them to find you Brucie?"

_(A pearl rolled toward him-)_

Mock concerning: "Were you scared?" The Joker adjusted his hat, pushed the brim upwards so it rested on the crown of his head. He leaned his face in close, sniffing for blood.

_(Bounced off the toe of one leather shoe-)_

_(It was stained red-)_

_(Blood.)_

Batman clenched his fists; a muscle was jumping in his jaw. A lock of his hair slipped free of the gel holding it and fell onto his brow. His eyes were dark, haunted. Ears echoing with the sounds of childhood.

_BANG! Bruce, run! BANG!_

He could jump over the table, pull him down onto the ground or pummel him into submission. He could imagine it, for once The Joker's face would be slack devoid of the man-eating grin he always wore. And Bruce Wayne standing above him like a dark God as the plebeians stood and stared. Tell the police the Joker told him about a plot to blow up the building and _he only wanted to save some lives_.

"No, no, _no_ Bats. That won't do. What will the nuns say when I tell them their rectory got blown up because the great Bat-Man couldn't control his temper. Think of all the long-legged boys, blown to smithereens! And it'd be all. Your. Fault."

"_What do you want." _One cigarette away from the normal rasp Batman treated the Joker with.

Not one waiter stepped foot near Bruce Wayne and his guest.

Batman focused his attention back on the Joker, away from the fantasy he found himself frequently allured by.

"**YOU.** I want you to leave these people, the _cockroaches_ of the _upper crust _and come with me. So I can show you." Yellow teeth were bared at Batman in an eternal grin.

And Batman wondered, when the Joker died would the smile still be there?

"_Show me what?"_

The Joker pointed at him with one authoritarian finger. "The true you. How you, battycakes, are just _One Rotten Day _away from being just. Like. Me." A gush of hysterical giggling, and he bounded to his feet hands throttling an invisible opponent. "_**ISN'T THAT JUST GREAT!**__**" **_

__He was jumping and cackling and screaming with mirth large, tears were pouring down his face and he couldn't stop. Twitches ran up and down his body at their own will, he seemed possessed.

Batman stood and grabbed him by both his shoulders, pressing his thumbs painfully into the clown's collarbones. "Stop. _Stop."_

But the Joker couldn't stop, the madness was upon him full force. The world was full of fluttering leather wings and the smell of harsh chemicals. Jack-in-the-boxes' erupted from their gilded cages and swallowed unsuspecting children. Mother's pulled scarves over their heads and wailed while stoic slate fathers stood behind and stared.

The poor pitiful patrons of the Ritz looked at the Joker, gob smacked. No one knew who he was, no not yet, but if the Joker continued this way they would soon. A Mother pulled her gaping daughter closer to her, who in turn had her camera out and was recording the whole thing.

" _C-C- _Come on _battycakes_." The clown prince was shaking with the power of his jest, hands clutching at Batman/Bruce Wayne's sides. "Can't handle a little _fun_? Laughter makes everything better, that's what they say. Turn that frown upside-down! _I _say," His voice turned gravely, threatening in a way only the mad could pull off. "_I say _that you better come. With. Me. Before I start to feel the urge again. I resisted it _just for you_ but I'm not sure I can take it much longer. Maybe it's the air, or the meds… or you. And this décor really needs some spicing up. Some _**RED **_would be nice. A nice thick venous spray," Suddenly jovial, "take your pick my dear! Jugular or cartaroid it's all the same to me!" He leaned in close, practically sniffing the billionaire's neck. "So what do you say?" 

* * *

They made an odd pair walking down the scabbed over and disintegrating sidewalks of Gotham. One with a predatory lope that spoke of years of slinking in the dark just a hairs breadth away from the back of an unsuspecting cop. The other held himself high, muscles tightly clenched; he was a man who had school himself in the art of control to the point of fracture.

Bruce was mentally itching, clawing, and screaming for the batsuit. Anything to hide behind. But the Joker had him sandwiched comfortably between Scylla and Charybdis.

Either beat the unpainted Joker publically as the air-headed Bruce Wayne or go along with the clown prince in his latest scheme where the possibility for personal destruction was just as high for the billionaire as anyone else.

The Joker, cleverly disguised as a kindly reporter, didn't bother to keep an eye out for landmarks he was

_(born in the Narrows with a bracken encrusted sink where the water gurgled like the last breath of a dying man and Daddy/Father/__**BASTARD **__had one hand on Mommy's neck while the other held onto the kind end of the kitchen blade he saw the child standing there cold and confused and asked: __**"Why. So –"**__)_

"Serious."

The Joker hissed through his teeth. Refusing to acknowledge his lapse in hearing and mental clarity. They were still occurring but not as frequent as they once had been, synapses misfiring and sending a terrible buzzing fog through his brain.

He'd been suffering from

_(memories?_)

Hallucinations lately. A side-effect of all the medications forced on him at Arkham.

Bruce stared at him, waiting. When no answer came he confronted him. Like a Jeremiad, a fire and brimstone preacher confronted with the devil-rearing ways of a sinful clergy he did what he did best. Condemned.

"This _idea _of yours has no valid point. Your _One Rotten Day Theory_ is flawed. It doesn't take only one day to birth someone as morally hideous as you, _**Joker.**_"

The Joker started to laugh, slowly. Each separate _HA _punctuated with a long period of silence.

" It takes years of abuse and poverty with no upstanding moral figure or hope. You let yourself become this over the years. You gave in to your situation."

The Joker spun on his heel, but continued to walk backwards to whatever destination he had in mind. "What moral slope did you slide down? Was it your long history of _poverty_ and _mental instability_ that led you to decide to put your Halloween costume on a few months early and beat delinquents in dark alleyways?"

_**"**__**THAT'S NOT THE POINT.**__**"**_

The Clown grinned. There was a voice he knew. "So your idea only applies to me? And not any other of the sick souls of Gotham? Face it Brucie, if your mommy and daddy never got shot in that dark and scary alleyway you'd be _boring. Normal__._ You'd never put on your batsuit and this city would be just as diseased and corrupted like it used to be." The Joker frowned mentally, that sounded too much like a compliment, but even if he didn't make the effort to move his mouth he'd always be smiling.

Bruce stopped, finally. This was the precipice. Either they fight it out here and Batman would troll the city looking for imaginary bombs or he would go down the rabbit hole where the Royal Court played croquet with dismembered heads instead of porcupines. "Then why bother with this? If you know that you're already right."

The Joker reached out and grabbed the wrist of his shirtsleeves, swinging his arms back and forth like a small child. "Sometimes we need a visual aid, to help the lesson sink in better." The semi-sane challenging Joker was gone; in its place was a wide maw full of rusting razor blades. It hungered for anything from Bruce- blood, tears- a _reply_. He pouted. "Besides, don't you like playing with me?"

Bruce ignored the question. "What are these_ visual aids_?"

The clown prince spun away from him and held up a finger were it was perfectly visible, making an over exaggerated _tsk-tsk _motion. "Another difference between us. _You_ like everything laid out, numbered and given time stamps. I bet you're a list person. _I_, on the other hand, like to be _spon-tan-eous. _Levy out the old and the fearful, inject some _cheer_, the time for blood and bombs is _near_." He emphasized each syllable with a thunderous clap, on the silent streets they sounded like gunshots.

Bruce frowned. (It wasn't very different from the face he had been wearing from the first moment the Joker had taken him _hostage_, which was one of a simmering crock pot of anger filled to the top with dynamite and doused with gasoline just for good measure.) Streets empty? In _Gotham_? He didn't dare turn his head, if the Joker caught him looking away it could be taken as pre-occupation of boredom or which the madman liked neither. He let his eyes wander, looking for signs of a false peace.

People moving on the rooftops.

His internal defcon siren was wailing, screaming like a grieving mother. Every roof on the block had a man (or woman) in a mask stationed on it. One on the roof nearest to the trobadouring couple moved then stood. The artificial light of a steaming neon sign backlit the assault rifle he held.

He growled.

The Joker half-turned, a curious gleam in his eyes. "_Yes?_"

Batman refused to look away, to look down. To show weakness. "**HOW DID YOU CLEAR THE STREETS?**"

The Joker sighed melodramatically, like a teen tired of his parents antics. "All you want to talk about is the _boring_ stuff. Why don't you ask me something _fun_, like, my favorite brand or gunpowder or-" He stopped suddenly, and looked up into the crumbling façade of one of the many buildings located on the Gotham Proper-Narrows fault line.

He squinted in the dark, the only light being that of the street lamps, reading the raised wooden numbers set into a wooden block. He eased back, a faint look of surprise on his face. "We're here." Already. He wanted to pout. He spent weeks organizing this. The subtle threats spread along their route that anyone out after eight might find themselves with some unwanted facial reconstruction. Turning off all of the street facing security cameras, which numbered in the _thousands_ and now they were _here_.

It would end so soon. Things will escalate, spinning higher and higher like a kite caught in a tornado. As the evidence becomes clear the minutes will slip away like sand in a sieve, attainable only in memory.

He skipped up the stairs, pale hands fluttering like white moths in the florescent stare of Gotham.

Bruce stood at the bottom of the steps, her Prince, as stone-faced as a Tarot card predicting doom and self-annihilation.

"Come on!" The harlequin waved him up and grinned.

* * *

Bruce followed complacently, but his muscles were twitching and twisting with adrenaline. Part of him was amazed that he was actually going this far. That he was willing to follow the Joker to one of his many fox holes in the attempt to illuminate something that was obviously a farce.

One of the reasons he followed was obviously for the city. _Obviously_. The man power of the roofs was enough proof to Batman that the Joker would be able to make good on his threat of _"blood and bombs"_. The other was his duty as the Batman. If the Joker was out of Arkham, Batman needed to _be right there_, in the Joker's face keeping an eye on him.

The other reason was lurking somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, where many things were locked away. The acceleration of his pulse just before he was about to swoop down on a criminal that had _nothing _to do with adrenaline. The frequent dreams

_(of bats and gunshots and pearls tainted red and the vise-grip of a dying father he pulled him down to his face so close that Brucie could smell the gin on his breath and thought for one minute stupidly how angry mother would be she didn't like father going out even after he'd had just one drink. The father said unto his son-)_

And cold sweats. The Joker _fascinated _him. Not just in a passing, one book on the shelf about psychology kind of way. The break into Arkham to steal medical files, hack into security cameras, and interrogate interns in dark alleys kind of obsession.

The stairs were steep and littered with all kinds of refuse. Vials, empty kerosene tanks, dated newspapers, and rats (dead or alive). Bruce was pretty sure that if Alfred were here, he'd make some quip about sensible shoes.

The strangest thing about the building, besides for the destructive presence of the Joker and his half-unwilling guest, was that it was empty. There were no empty buildings in Gotham. If a building was deemed condemned and a plywood sheet fixed over the door it would be torn down within an hour. Squatters filling every crevice, sometimes even camped out on the roof in tarp tents. Police strong-armed eviction wouldn't work. More people would flood back in, a river of disease and despair. Most of them would be teenagers. Swallowed by the city who was a mother only to those who could survive.

All of the others she ate.

The Joker stopped at the third floor landing and swept the large iron door open, not bothering to check and see if Bruce managed to keep up or left completely. He knew that the had tethered them together now. Batman would never had been able to keep himself away. Hint at a _con-nec-__**tion**_, a bond, and watch how Batsy scrambles. Eager to _know_ but unwilling to **bite.**

You'd think, being the _Bat_-man, he'd be far more willing to do the latter.

The Joker stopped at his door and with a minor flourish pulled out the key. Both the key and the door were marked **0**. He grinned at Bruce, showing teeth that were yellowed by years of dedicated avoidance and interns who wanted to keep their fingers.

The basic mechanical motions of a human hand-wrist combination. The fingers keep the key in position while the wrist turns slowly; Bruce watched it with silent awe as if it is a feat and not something that he himself does hundreds of times each day. Everything moves in slow motion. A click and the door hovers open one silent inch.

The magic is gone and Bruce blinks as the Joker gruffly sticks the key in one breast pocket and gestures for him to enter the apartment. "Vigilante's first."

Bruce takes one step into the apartment and his consciousness immediately reverts to Batman. The smell of chloroform is there, faint, but what really sets him off are the whimpers of the two people duck-taped to their chairs and staring at him with piteous eyes. The stink of death and fear is heavy in the air.

Batman strikes without looking, bringing his elbow behind and out, aiming for the esophagus. He doesn't need to see the Joker; he can feel his manic heat radiating from where the madman stood, behind his left shoulder.

The blow makes contact, but is off by a scant few inches. It clips the clown's collar bone instead and he is forced back into the hallway.

Batman turns, fist out and aiming for the face but the Joker dodges and forces his arm down. His body has no other choice to follow and with the aid of the Jokers hand on the back of his neck, Batman's face meets the wall.

The Joker shifts slightly not releasing his vise-grip on the back of the billionaire's neck. No stain on the wall. He keeps bashing his head against it until there is.

Batman's head is ringing and blood is dripping out of his nose and he can taste it on his tongue.

But he still fights.

Ignoring all the rules he was taught in China on the streets and in the mountains, he focuses on bringing the Joker down. His hand grabs the Joker by the forearm and they both slide down the wall, leaving a smear as they make their descent. He forces the Joker beneath him and punches him until he will have black around his eyes without the aid of makeup.

The Joker leers up at him, his mouth bleeding from a few blows deliberately missed. "Why so angry Batsy? Did I do something to _offend _your delicate sensibilities?"

Batman glares back, steel fingers pinning the Joker's shoulders to the ground, should the Joker try to reach up and … _bite_. "**YOU SAID THAT IF I CAME WITH YOU, YOU WOULDN'T HURT ANYONE. I'M DONE WITH YOUR GAME. YOU'RE COMING WITH ME TO ARKHAM." **But he doesn't move and instead stares down the Joker with eyes like chips of ice.

The Joker grins. He might have lost the fight, bled a little got a few broken bones, but it was all _fun_. If the Batman wouldn't leave now, even after he saw his little treat, he wouldn't be leaving at all. "But this is part of the _game_. When I said _visual aids _I meant it. What did you think? I was going to draw you a little diagram, read some words off of an index card and that would be it? No, No, _**NO **_Batsy. You're special. You deserve better attention than that."

His gaze is suddenly diverted to something down the hallway and Batman can't turn his head fast enough to look. "Isn't that right Scarecrow?"

A fine spray of mist, like ladies perfume, hits him in the face. He can hear the laughter building up. Spiraling like a sick violin solo, HA _HA __**HA**_, but when he looks up the Joker is unnaturally solemn-faced standing over him with his arms crossed.

Everything fades to black with the sound of the laughter.

Bruce, the adrenaline surge that made him Batman is gone, blinks without realizing he's awake. Through the brain-fog he's surprised he can even manage a blink. His limbs feel weighted down, carrying his parents tombstones with chains wrapped around each wrist and ankle. Keeping them tethered together. Forever.

He looked around the empty room, clearly feeling his eyeballs rolling in their sockets. He found the Joker in front of the large loft window that Bruce had a feeling the apartment had been chosen for. The Joker had a pair of purple safety scissors in his hand and was stealthily cutting his silhouette out of the plastic trash bags that had been duct-taped over the window.

Bruce surprised himself by quickly becoming entranced by the Joker's delicate cutting motions. The control he held over the scissors (even though they were only children's, cutting a sharp line through plastic is very hard), the delicate way he held the knife-

"_Awake so soon?"_ A voice rasped. Low and distorted by technology and madness.

Bruce tried to say something, summon Batman, along the lines of: **SCARECROW, I'M GOING TO SEND YOU BACK TO ARHAM IN A FULL BODY CAST.** But the only thing he can manage is a wet and throaty: _"Guh." _

_(Eloquent as always Master Bruce.)_

_Alfred._

Suddenly, for the first time, Bruce wondered how the butler is doing. They had set up procedures, plans if this sort of thing was to happen, but it had never actually been tested so fiercely.

The Joker extended one pale finger and poked Bruce's soft cheek. It enticed another noise, this one more like a growl. "What did you _do_ to him?" He sounded petulant, like a child.

Scarecrow snapped back, "You said you wanted him _under control_. And here he is. You don't even have to tie him up." He didn't like being questioned.

"I didn't get you out of Arkham, _Hay-Man_, just so you could turn Batsy into a puppet. It's not the same without _audience part-ici-__**pation**__.__"_ A knife is in his hand, but he holds it low at his hip. An easy shank position. His eyes are lit up with an anger entirely different from what Bruce has seen before.

Bruce concentrated. After a moment, like dealing with a slow dial-up connection, his fingers respond. He's able to curve them halfway into a fist.

Scarecrow brought up his arms slowly, recognizing a fit in the making. "He won't be like this the whole time. Give him a few minutes, the serum will work itself out of his system-" His eyes widened in shock. He made a futile effort to clutch the handle of the knife, pull it out of his abdomen but the Joker only forced it in deeper. Scarecrow made a soft sound

_(hiding in the cupboard under the stairs, clutching his knees to his chest trying to keep as quiet as possible. Large shadow-feet pass by and he covers his mouth with one pale hand, trying to keep the sound in. The feet don't double back. He waits, listening, then rests his hands lightly against the door and puts his eyes up to the slot. Hallway clear. He reaches for the knob and a face drops out of nowhere, painted with blood like a warrior, eyes wide and crazed. __**"Why so serious?"**__)_

like a dying animal and stops resisting. Behind the sack-mask his eyes are wide and unfocused. He might be a genius, but he's not good at handling pain.

The Joker braces one hand on the psychiatrists shoulder and pulls the knife out. It makes a wet sound and ribbons of blood follow it. Most of the blood lands on the floor, where hungry grains swallow it like a human sacrifice.

Scarecrow let his knees unhinge, he fell to the floor in slow motion, out of Bruce's range of sight. He was able to move his hands completely up to the wrist. Bruce started to focus on moving his toes.

The Joker stood over the crumpled form of Scarecrow, idly thumbing the sharp side of the blade, cutting his thumb in the process. He stuck the knife back in his pocket, tearing a whole in the fabric as he put it in blade side down. The Joker sauntered over to Bruce and ran his bleeding hand through his hair.

"This feels good… _strange_. Exciting. Like, when you're in the theater and you have bombs planted in the back, you're stomach starts to feel light and your head feels like its connected to your neck by a string and it just wants to float away. I don't want what we have to end, but the new us will be so much better. The city will burn, the mother killed by the son."

Bruce stayed silent, pretending to still be feeling the effects. The Joker grabbed Bruce by the forearm, leaving bloody streaks on his forehead and suit jacket. He pulled the paralyzed billionaire into a sitting position, supported him when his center of gravity tried to pull him off of the table and onto the floor.

The Joker somehow managed to get him off of the table without Bruce falling and cracking his head, into a wheelchair. Bruce was wheeled over to the cut-out, the Joker making airplane noises and swerving back and forth like he was out of control. Bruce scanned the floor as they were moving, he was able to tense his arm muscles now, if he could find a bludgeon and knock the Joker unconscious he could wheel himself out of here.

They passed the tied-up couple. Bruce realized that they were probably squatting here. Terrorized by the Joker because they had a large window with a good view. Their eyes widened as he passed. They recognized him. That was either a blessing or enough evidence for damnation.

The Joker situated Bruce so his knees were perfectly inline with the silhouettes. The Joker hunched down, forearms thrown over Bruce's shoulders, hands linked in the front. Bruce resisted the urge to bite him. He whispered in his ear, like a boy on his first date, ignoring the fact that both of them are covered in blood or turned on by it. "_This_ is what I wanted to show you. My _visual aid_."

Below the window there are people all over the street.

* * *

Bruce counted them quickly. Twenty citizens of Gotham crowded on one narrow street very near the heart of the city, completely unnoticed. They were probably those who had been on the roofs, down on the street with first row tickets for the show. They had no semblance of order but they had made an attempt to form two ragged groups. Four people stood in the middle, satellites in a dark orbit.

"This is your lesson." One hand gestured vaguely to the four people separate from the rest. "Those people are divided into two categories. One, as _your people _would call them, the dregs of society. The other, the citizens of the upper crust." The hand that had been gesturing was put on his chin and Bruce was forced to stare into the Joker's face. The Joker licked his lips, pleased with the attention. "I need _you_ to tell _me_, which one you want my group to kill_.__"_ The Joker smiled suddenly all sunshine and roses, or in his case, pipe bombs and blown up buses. "Okay?"

Bruce felt like a jolt went through him. He felt the shock rip through his spine, making his muscles go haywire, twisting and jumping. He forced himself not to get up from the chair. As long as the Joker didn't know he could move _(mostly) _he had the upper hand.

The Joker moved him like a puppet, forcing his head back to the window and angling it to where he thought the best view was. "But don't worry. I'll make it easier for you. I'll give you their life stories, the skeletons in their closets and the bodies under their floorboards. If I didn't I don't know how'd you choose." He mimed great concentration and put three fingers to his forehead. "I'm thinking of a number between zero and infinity."

Bruce stared down at the street, back rigid and crawling.

Forty-Four eyes stared back.

"We'll start with my comrades in the trenches, shall we?" When he didn't get an answer, the Joker growled under his breath. He fisted his hand in Bruce's hair, nearly pulling it out by the roots, jerking his head back. Bruce bared his teeth and strained his neck, trying to pull himself out of the vulnerable position. "I'm going to need some class participation, or you're going to get a _detention_ do you understand?" Bruce continued to resist. "Or we could just kill the four and be done with it. There's always more fish in the sea. Maybe next time I'll pick children. Will that help you behave?" The Joker's eyes bored into Bruce's, brows pulled low over green eyes. "Maybe we can pick up the _Commissioners _kids. Take them on a field trip."

Silence reigned. Bruce breathed hard through his nose. His scalp burned like someone had poured bleach on it. But he wasn't going to admit it. Slowly, the other man released his grip on Bruce's hair. It stuck up in all directions, a silent testimony to the Joker's violence.

The Joker's voice was harsh and tinted with loosely controlled violence. "_She _killed her _parents_. Beat them over the head with a bat and stuffed them into the family car. Then she lit it on _fire_. They were still alive as she burned." He sighed, disappointed with what he was about to say. "But now she goes to _seminary_, wants to take her vows and become a female priest. She only makes eighty dollars a week and sends half of it to Africa to feed starving children. Cure diseases. She fancies herself a _philanthropist_."

Bruce stopped listening. Each story would be the same. A past crime followed by a turning of the leaf. Try to judge past sins while encompassing their recent doings. It would be insane to choose. And that was exactly what the Joker wanted. Insanity. For him to pick _one person_ for the mob to kill, then wracked by guilt he would make the general fall into oblivion.

A man. He caught his wife having sex with another man in their bed. He killed both the wife and the lover in a fit of rage. Then called the police and turned himself in. Pleaded guilty by reason of temporary insanity. Good behavior, got out at the minimum five years. But during his parole he got in a scuffle with his parole officer, ended up killing her. Went on the run for a while, but was eventually caught by the mob the Joker had formed.

A teenager. Honors student, good grades and in multiple extra-curricular activities. During a routine locker check a small handgun was found in his locker. Along with several notebooks containing notes from several other publicized school shootings. There were also lists of names, people he would aim for. He had been in a holding cell in county. The Joker got him released special, just for Batman.

Another woman. A prostitute. Killed her pimp when he tried to rape her. She went through a string of pimps after that, killing each when they came to collect their share. She emptied their pockets of everything, took their watches and earrings and sold them in pawn shops all over the Narrows.

Bruce could hear a voice in the very back crevice of his mind weighing each story. Taking every detail and comparing them with the others.

_(Matricide. Patricide. Never committed an act but planned it out in extreme detail. Murder, three counts.)_

The Joker looked at him sideways, a hungry grin on his lips. Drinking in the cornered faraway look in his eyes and how his hands trembled slightly. He leaned in close, breath tickling his ear. "So, what do you think _Bruce_?"

Something in him snapped. He flung himself out of the chair and onto the Joker, full of anger and feeling stronger than ever despite the lingering traces of the serum Crane made. He punched the Joker, hearing himself make noises but not hearing. Punching until the skin on his knuckles was torn and raw and bleeding.

The Joker stared at him, eyes glassy with pain. His nose was bleeding, as was his mouth and he had several cuts scattered on his face. He was a red river. "Was it something I said?"

Batman was straddling the Joker, a fist clenched in his purple vest. **"WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?"**Now that the doubt was there it could never be pulled back in. He would second-guess every move he made, wondering if he was judging too early, if he hadn't gotten the whole story. And criminals would get away because of it. **"WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH ME BEING JUST LIKE YOU?"**

That's what it came down to. It's what reeled him in, in the first place. If the Joker had just walked up and said: "I'm going to kill a busload of people, come with me", he wouldn't have gone. He would have punched the Joker into unconsciousness and handed him over to the GCPD. And the Joker knew that, so he gave him a nibble of something he couldn't refuse.

And he was hungry for more.

The Joker laughed, it was shorter than usual, but his aching ribs wouldn't provide for anything more than that. "That's the real question, isn't it?" He twisted his neck in an odd motion trying to make himself comfortable on the hard floor. "And I'll give you the truth; this shows how much I love you Batsy."

Bruce waited but the Joker didn't answer. He was too busy licking his lips and lapping at the blood that spilled down his chin. **"WHAT? WHAT IS IT?"**

The Joker's face brightened, despite the budding bruises and drying blood, his lack of face paint and the coon-like circles under his eyes. The Joker was grinning; his face looked apt to split with the force of it. "The truth is,"

_(He sat in the attic. The wood was well-worn, grey. Soft like drift wood. It was the golden hour of twilight and light streamed through the open window, making the whole room look like it was on fire. A manikin stood, shrouded in royal robes of dust. A large swath of purple fabric hung off of one plastic and lifeless shoulder. He was very still and very quiet. His attention was focused on one high corner of the room. The one that the bat kept flying into.)_

There was another pause. Batman growled threatingly. But the Joker looked far away.

_(Behind his back he held a tennis racket. The bat tried to force his way through the wall, tearing and shrieking. It made a quick loop in the air and headed straight for the round window. The one that he was sitting in front of. He tensed his muscles and waited. The bat came closer. One viper-like strike and the bat was crumpled in a corner. He got up; the seat of his jeans covered in dust and stalked the half-dead bat. He stared down at it, head tilted slightly.)_

_(A drunken voice screamed up the stairs. "Get down here boy! I've got a lesson to teach you." He continued staring at the bat. He made a deal with himself. If it flapped its wings twice before dying he would go downstairs. If it only flapped its wings once, he would go downstairs and kill his father.)_

"The truth is: you'll probably never be like me. You're just too stubborn. But I'll do my best to drag you down into the pits with me."

_(The Joker stood over the bat and waited.)_


End file.
